“What the hell do you mean by it, Mr Pons? You have ruined the performance!”
“Something else might have been ruined if I had not intervened,” said my companion dryly, indicating the arrow.
Carstairs turned white and he and Miss Richmond exchanged frightened glances. Pons was casting sharp looks toward the front of the stage but now he relaxed somewhat.
“What were you doing with that shotgun, Pons?” I asked.
“Tut. Parker, it was not a gun but an ornamental walking cane,” he said carelessly. “You no doubt mistook the smooth ebony of the shaft for a gun-barrel in the half-light. I threw it into the orchestra pit to put our friend off his aim.”
“Orchestra pit, Pons?”
Solar Pons gave an enigmatic smile.
“Certainly, Parker. I saw quite early on that it provided admirable cover, particularly as the marksman would have to be close. And he could afterwards go out by the small entrance beneath the stage.”
“I do not understand, Pons.”
“It would not be the first time, Parker,” said Solar Pons mischievously. “It came to me when I counted sixteen players instead of fifteen. A violin case makes an excellent place of concealment.”
“I cannot make head or tail of it, Pons,” I complained.
“Let us just take things slowly, Parker,” said Pons as the secretary Abrahams helped Carstairs and Miss Richmond to their feet.
“You may have wondered why I was talking so much about the case and the dangers of the first night about the theatre. That was merely part of my design. There is no place like the theatre for gossip and by this simple stratagem I hoped to put them off their guard. Ah, Inspector, there you are!”
I was stupefied to see the unprepossessing form of Inspector Jamison, our old acquaintance of Scotland Yard, coming up on to the stage.
“You have the warrants, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mr Pons. I have left them blank as you requested.”
“What does this mean, Pons?” I said.
“It means, Parker, that a nasty little drama is drawing to its close.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the front of the stage all this time, oblivious of the buzz of conversation about us from the solicitous group which surrounded Carstairs and Dolly Richmond. I confess I was puzzled by his attitude but I was even more surprised when he turned to me and said casually, “Come, Parker, we will be better placed at the front of the house. You had better come too, Jamison.”
“As you wish, Mr Pons. I have men posted in the foyer of the theatre and at the exits, as you suggested.”
I turned to my companion with a dozen queries on my lips but he instantly silenced me with an imperative gesture. He led the way to the front of the stalls, where most of the seats had been vacated by the rush of people on to the stage in the confusion following the firing of the arrow. Pons’ alert manner and the way his piercing eyes darted about indicated that he was very much on the lookout for something.
The orchestra conductor, a handsome-looking man with a flowing mane of white hair emerged from a small door at the side of the stage and engaged in conversation with Carstairs and Miss Richmond. The other members of the orchestra were slowly filing out now and I could see the secretary, Abrahams coming up toward us, together with the business manager Ayres and other members of the theatrical company.
“Music has great charms, Jamison,” said Solar Pons irrelevantly, “and as we are told, soothes the savage breast.”
“Beg pardon. Mr Pons,” said the Inspector obtusely.
“For example,” said Solar Pons calmly. “There are all types of instruments but some from which it would be difficult to coax a tune.”
“I don’t follow, Mr Pons,” said Jamison.
Members of the orchestra were still brushing past.
“A bow is of little use without a violin,” said Solar Pons crisply.
He struck suddenly like a snake. A tall, slim man with a white face and a shock of black hair fell heavily to the floor as Pons arrogantly thrust out his foot. He started up with tremendous speed, his violin case falling at his feet. I moved forward in astonishment but I was too late.
Pons had the fallen man’s hair in his hands. The wig came away instantly revealing a soft mass of blonde locks. The woman’s voice was harsh and sibilant with hatred.
“Damn you, Mr Pons!”
As I turned from this astonishing spectacle I saw that the violin case had fallen open and from it protruded a shining bow made of silvery steel set in velvet among a nest of metal-tipped arrows.
“Here is your man, Jamison,” said Solar Pons exultantly. “Or rather woman. It is no use struggling Miss Stillwood. The drama is over.”
Jamison jumped forward and secured the angry actress. Carstairs fell back against the edge of the stage, his face shocked and ashen.
“Sandra! You don’t mean it was you…? All along?”
The woman’s face was white with fury and she almost spat the words out.
“I have hated you for years, Cedric! And I was sick of your constant affairs. If it had not been for Stanwell edging forward that night in Liverpool we would have been rid of you.”
“We?”
The voice was that of Inspector Jamison’s.
“Of course, Jamison,” said Solar Pons languidly. “Mrs Carstairs was not alone in this matter. You had best fill that second warrant in also, Inspector. In the name of Gordon Venner.”
Abrahams’ face was a mixture of fear and surprise. He ducked away but Solar Pons brought him down with a well-aimed kick behind the knee. He gave a howl of pain and then Jamison was on him and I heard the click of handcuffs.
There was an instant hubbub as all the people in the theatre gathered round. Pons looked at Carstairs’ shaken features and from him to the blazing eyes of Dolly Richmond.
“We cannot talk here, gentlemen. I suggest we leave the explanations until a more private occasion.”
“This whole thing is ridiculous!” broke in Sandra Stillwood imperiously. “I demand to know the charges.”
“Murder and attempted murder will do to be going on with,” said Pons.
6
“You will remember, Parker,” said Solar Pons, blowing out a streamer of blue smoke toward the ceiling of our sitting room at 7B, Praed Street. “You will remember that when Cedric Carstairs first called me in I continually spoke of an outside menace threatening the actor. There was a very good reason for that.”
I looked at my companion in amazement.
“You suspected Mrs Carstairs and the secretary from the beginning, Pons!”
“Hardly that, Parker,” Solar Pons corrected me. “But from the very nature of the sinister incidents surrounding the family I knew it had to be very close to him indeed. The person who was sending the parcels had to know his movements intimately; even what plays he was in and the theatres where they were being presented. Furthermore, the model work was done with such skill and the whole thing planned with such sadistic pleasure that it immediately directed my mind to three things.”
“Three things, Mr Pons?”
Inspector Jamison screwed up his eyes as he stared at my companion in puzzlement from the other side of the table. It was the following day and both Sandra Stillwood and the secretary had made full confessions before being committed to cells to await a proper court hearing. Jamison had just come from Scotland Yard to join us for lunch and now we were enjoying coffee and liqueurs while Pons explained his reasoning.
He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe to emphasise the points.
“Firstly, the models were so exquisite that they indicated a high degree of skill on the part of the modeller. This was so unusual that the perpetrator should not have been too difficult to trace. Secondly, the way the whole affair was planned — both to warn and terrify the victim — indicated great hatred. They say murder begins at home and I at once began to look at Carstairs’ domestic circumstances.”